


Just Ask

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Time, M/M, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 20:36:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20377726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Just because he's decided it's okay, it doesn't mean Aziraphale's pursuit of a certain demon goes smoothly.He is, however, determined to work it out.





	Just Ask

They make it all of twenty-eight minutes back h-- back towards London before Aziraphale plucks up the courage to say it.

“Crowley… I need to… we need to… discuss… things.”

It says much about how exhausting the day has been, that Aziraphale can see in the bus window the lines of tension and then resignation around Crowley’s shadowed eyes. He normally hides things a little better than that, or smothers them with sneers and sarcasm. 

“Nah. Averting the Apocalypse? Child’s play.”

“That isn’t what I--” 

He deserves the slow turn of Crowley’s head towards him. Deserves the thin-lipped grimace. He wants to say it, now, before… in case the invitation is revoked. He has nowhere to go, but he can make it work. He’d rather…

“Crowley,” he tries again. “I have been… uncharitable.”

“You? An angel? Stars preserve us.”

He accepts the barb. It’s fair. But he won’t be dissuaded, not now. “We just undid six thousand years of planning and prejudice in eleven years, Crowley.”

“Actually, more like less than eleven _nights_. We were helping the wrong bloody boy.”

“I wasn’t talking about Adam. Or Warlock.”

“I kind of think you--”

“I was talking,” the angel interrupts, “--about us.”

As expected, Crowley’s mouth turns lemon-bitten scrunch, and he turns his gaze away again. “Right.”

“Please. Have… a little faith. In me.” Pause. “In us.”

There’s no answer, but he’s sure the air just rarefied. It’s. It’s. Oh, Lord, why did he think he could do this? He’s never been able to voice this, to… confess this. And he’d hoped that being pinned on this omnibus would be sufficiently restrictive to force his--

“It’s alright, angel.”

But that just makes him angry. “It is most assuredly _not_. Anthony J. Crowley, you take that back at once!”

Now the serpent snaps his head around, confusion and - sadly - fear. He’s rearing back, like he’s ready to spit, but--

“Take what back?”

“That it’s alright! You - you - I’ve treated you most _abominably_ for all of Creation, and you just - you--” Forgave him. Oh. The realisation makes him fluster even further.

“S’what we’re s’posed to do, ‘member? Angel. Demon. Occult. Ethereal. Whatnot.” He shrugs, but doesn’t look away. “And it hasn’t _all_ been awful, right?”

No. It hadn’t. That was the problem. Here was his hereditary enemy, willing to put up with his prejudiced nonsense, willing to forgive him… and his own ‘side’, his own… angelic host… the ones who were supposed to embody all these charitable, loving, beautiful things…

“I lied to you.” There. He knows Crowley knows, but now he’s admitting it.

“Must have been my bad influence. Or maybe it’s whatever passes for genetic in whatever She makes.”

“Crowley, _please_. I didn’t let you apologise, but would you please allow me to? I - I would very much like to set the record straight, and it is not easy when you keep interrupting me.”

The demon mimics a zip, crossing his lips. But his eyebrows above the frames say more than enough.

“Thank you. As I was trying to say… I lied to you. I said I wasn’t your friend. And… and that was totally untrue.” 

He sees the unspoken request to interject, but he shakes his head. No. He needs to do this. His courage may only last so long, after all. Deep, steadying breath. 

“...although, it was also true. You… are more than a friend, to me. You have been my companion for six thousand years. And whilst we have not always agreed on things, you have… you have supported me, and cared for me, and - don’t you dare get angry with me for saying this! - you have been _good_ to me. And I couldn’t admit it, because then… then that said that…”

“That it wasn’t a case of Heaven and Hell?” Crowley suggests, disobeying as ever. 

“...yes. That… that angels weren’t good just by… nature of being angels. And demons… could be better than angels.” 

“Now you’re just being--”

“Crowley, please! I… I mean it. You mean so very much to me. And I cannot have you thinking you don’t.” He remembers the expression on the demon’s face, in the pub. Several bottles to the wind, declaring him to be his late best friend. When he was busy denying that he even… liked him.

“Okay, apology accepted. I could make you eat humble pie, but I--”

Apology not sufficient. Absolutely not sufficient. And not working, either. Although he’s not sure what, precisely, he expected from a post-Apocalyptic bus-ride confession, and he pouts in frustration. Six thousand years and they still can’t really talk. 

“Did you mean it?”

“...that I accept your apology?”

“No. Yes. I--” He can do this. “You are not my best friend, Crowley. And - I’ve said that wrong. Let me start over: you are _more_ than just my best friend. You are my only friend. My only, true friend. My…” 

He needs to keep going. There’s a knee nudging his, giving him permission to stop.

But no matter how many times Crowley can lap him on the course by going too fast, he’ll eventually reach the finish line, he’s sure. 

“You - if you - asked me again, I would say yes.”

“To? My place? You already--”

“I would rather stay on Earth, but if you left, I would go with you.”

The silence this time is all on Crowley. The wheels on the bus go round, round, round. Eternities of dancing, of never really being honest. Aziraphale hopes he’s understood, and it wasn’t just… the idea of being alone, forever? That Crowley--

“We might need to.”

“...oh?”

“Don’t think either lot will be happy with us.” He’s oddly… emotionless. 

“...about that.” He feels for the shard of paper, and pulls it out. “I think we might just have a chance.”

***

The conversation waits until they get to Crowley’s flat, then. Some things… some things they can’t risk discussing where prying ears could overhear. It’s frustrating, but necessary.

Aziraphale has never seen Crowley’s flat before. It’s amusingly ostentatious, and contains more colours than he’s ever seen on the demon, in all their years. But even the decor is reserved for key pieces, and they almost seem to be… compensatory? 

Or, they were, before the mess around the place.

“Holy Water,” the demon nods, at the patch on the floor. “Came in useful after all.”

Oh.

_Oh._

“So, do you agree it’s… a good plan?”

“Angel, when has a plan being bad ever stopped us?”

Aziraphale smiles. “We’ve survived thus far.”

“Still think I did the wrong thing, and you the right, all those years ago?”

“I think… ‘right’ has a broader… scope than I originally understood.” One that could, for instance, include… disobedience. He’d known it when he handed the sword over, but he hadn’t been able to reconcile that to what everyone else told him. 

But now he can. 

“If it doesn’t work, but we somehow escape...?” 

The hope he’s choking out of his voice is painful to Aziraphale’s ears. 

“I made my choice. I made my decision. I’m on _your_ side. And I will fight for the world with you, but if we cannot win… if you want to run, I will be by your side. I…” He fiddles with the hem of his sleeve. “I do not think I could enjoy a day on Earth knowing you were gone.”

Not any more.

“...didn’t like it so much myself,” Crowley chokes. 

“I… when I said those things…” He needs to be more drunk for this. His eyes keep flitting over to the charred remains of a Duke of Hell. “I was afraid. Afraid that it wouldn’t work. That…”

“It’s alright,” Crowley says, forgiving him again.

“It isn’t. Not for me. Not yet. Perhaps it will be, but not yet.” Absently, he starts to wave two fingers, tidying things up. And tries to not think about the bookshop. His one sanctuary, his real home. It makes his throat tight to imagine.

And how must it have felt for Crowley, imagining he’d been destroyed? Much like Aziraphale had worried, about the Holy Water.

“Okay… you can beat yourself up all you want. If you really want me to fool Heaven like I think you do, I’m going to need to sleep.”

He likely doesn’t need to sleep, but he did just perform a series of very intense miracles. The Bentley had been bad enough, but the airfield… Aziraphale nods. “I will watch the door. Ensure you are not disturbed.”

Inscrutable, the demon nods, and slaloms towards what must be his bedroom. “Make yourself at home. We might die tomorrow, anyway.”

“My dear…”

The glasses pull down, yellow eyes so tired behind them. “One more miracle, hey, angel? You can pray for it.”

***

Aziraphale wants very much to go through everything. He wants to read these secrets in furniture and furnishings. Wants to see the things Crowley kept only for himself…

Because he did, didn’t he? Other than the charred remnants of a demon, has anyone else been here? Or has he entertained? Friends? Lovers?

He has a bed, after all. He’s in it right now. Aziraphale can’t help but imagine how he’s sleeping, wondering if he’d be still as death, or move like he’s awake. Would he curl around pillows like he does around chairs? Would he be half-poured off the mattress, already falling to the floor? 

It’s just a bed. It’s.

Why is he suddenly so jealous of others who might have… seen him? He always scoffed at the demon’s desire to court oblivion. It wasn’t necessary… but neither was eating.

And had he meant anything? When he left? Had it been an invitation? And what would he have done, if it were? 

The angel jams his eyes tight shut, trying to banish the dancing images behind his lids. It’s not even as if he has - well - the requisite parts and reasons to… he’s just… thinking of observing, not… not…

Oh, bother.

He walks shakily to the kitchen area, pulling out a mug that… it looks pristine. And it looks perfect. For him. Is it? Was it purchased in the hope that one day he’d accept an invitation that had never truly been given? Implied, inferred, oh yes. But never spoken aloud, like so much of their… ‘Arrangement’. His fingers fumble, and he nearly drops it in pain. 

How many times had Crowley come to visit him? Just turned up, over the years? Walked in bearing gifts he tried to downplay… fighting Aziraphale’s show of reluctance, putting himself in the cross-hairs? How much torture had he put his - his - him through to just… spend time with him…

Fuck, but he’s been a total fool and a hurtful one to boot. Blinking at the grief for lost time, he resolves he must do better. Be better. Crowley has been infinitely patient and kind, all things considered. And he’s shoved doors in his faces and known it wouldn’t ruin things, because… because.

That’s what life was. 

No. No. He wouldn’t do it any more.

***

First, the world didn’t end. Then, they didn’t end. It is looking like the best of all possible worlds, and there’s even lunch. 

Crowley doesn’t eat when he’s not around. He admitted it, once, and Aziraphale has watched him closely every time since. He certainly seems to enjoy it (though he more heavily favours a liquid lunch), so it confuses him why he’d only partake in his presence. 

The meal is lovely. The company is sparkling. The conversation is knowing, that of two beings who are so intimately acquainted that the forces of Heaven and Hell cannot distinguish the lie. The challenges are overcome, the danger passed (for now). 

And yet. And yet.

“I should like to see… whether Adam made any changes to your home, perhaps?”

“...huh?”

“You said there were new books in my shop.”

“Aren’t you dying to go put your hands on them and smell them?”

He is. Of course he is. But he can do that any time.

Any. Time.

“I have eternity for books. But if you would rather I--”

“I mean… if you want to. You can… I mean. Any… time if you… you know.”

“Would you prefer I call first to see if you are busy?” he pushes, gently. Out of politeness. To see if he really does have an open pass to visit, like the one he never gave, but Crowley took from him.

“Nah. Unless you wanna check I’m in. I can give you - uh - access. If…”

Access. Like: a key? To his flat? It hits like a hurricane to his chest. He’s not sure how he doesn’t squeak audibly, and he crushes his fingers into his palm to steady himself. 

“Crowley. I… that is to say, I--” No. Oh no. 

“You don’t need to say yes.” His lips form around unspoken words, like snakes of their own, trying to break free.

“Yes! Crowley… yes. I want. I… I want the key to your flat. And to be your best friend. And - and - anything else you might afford me.”

Oh, he’s feeling utterly miserable now, his own face a shifting mess of emotion. He forces the frog in his throat down towards his gut, to paddle through the pudding. “...I would like anything you might be willing to commit to. Truly.”

“Well, you did just ask for the keys to my place after only one night. Careful, we’ll be married by the end of the week if you keep this up.”

He doesn’t sound disgusted, though. The thin layer of mockery is there as a defence. It isn’t… it’s…

“Legally, we couldn’t. And you’d hurt your feet. But if it was truly what you wanted… we would find a way.”

He watches as the demon’s cheeks go pink, as his gambit - his over-done attempt to shock Aziraphale back into his little closet of sorts goes spectacularly wrong. 

“You sure you didn’t lick the walls of Hell while you were down there?”

“I didn’t. Why? Should I have?”

“Angel, you can’t be seriously telling me you---mmmnf!”

Furiously, he pushes his lips to his demon’s, a simple touch with nothing but brief, impassioned contact. And then he sits back and folds his hands atop the table, and dares him to protest with just his eyes. 

“...huh.”

“I mean it. If you do.”

“...do you even know what you’re--?”

“Yes.” No. “In theory.”

“Could we maybe have this discussion… elsewhere?”

“Like at your flat?” Then he frowns. “Was that too forwards?”

“I’ll get the bill.”

***

He kissed him. He kissed Crowley. And it was odd and not like he expected at all. Of course there’d been kisses before, with others. Social nods, or transactions sealed, or acquaintances greeted. He had even kissed Crowley on the cheek before, but a long time ago.

But this had been different. He’d kissed him with - well - impure intent. Or was it really impure, if it came from a place of real affection? An offer of devotion, of dedication? 

He can still feel the contact on his lips, tingling like he’d eaten sharp citrus with chapped lips. A memory, and an emotion, wrapped into one. 

Aziraphale isn’t sure what ‘they’ are. There is no equivalence to compare to, not in reality. In works of fiction, yes, but those were… idealised, or - ah - demonised. And nothing about them had ever been like anything, or anyone else, they’d ever met. 

He’d invited himself to his flat. Asked for the key. Kissed him. And then asked him again to take him to his home. 

It was basically as slutty and wanton as it was possible for anyone to be, short of trying to remove his clothes in public. The angel’s face is hot as the Hellfire his body had recently been through, and it likely deserved it. 

“I don’t want to be the bigger demon, here, but I think we… should… talk about this.”

Absolutely. Absolutely not. Was he about to turn him down?

“You just - we just - survived two very close shaves with the big guy with the shiny cutting stick. And you just… cut ties with your… your--”

“I will not change my mind.”

“You say that _now_\--”

“How can I prove it to you? Do you need me to spend the next six thousand years undoing everything I did wrong?”

“That isn’t what I was trying to say.”

“I understand I have given you very little reason to believe in me, but… you always did believe in me. Even when I didn’t. So… will you trust me one last time? I don’t know what it is ‘we’ are, but it’s… it’s… I no longer wish to be apart from you. And I cannot say I will make it easy on you, but--”

“So you really do wanna get married, huh?” It’s said so flippantly as to be anything but.

“I confess, it was not my initial thought, but the idea has its merits.”

The car rattles along some more. 

“So. That’s how you ask me out. After six thousand years.” Crowley shakes his head. “You really are something.”

“At least I _asked_.”

“I invited you to Alpha Bloody Centauri!”

“That well known euphemism for ‘I would like to be in a relationship with you’?”

“Oh, sod off.” He’s smiling, at last, though he’s trying to hide it. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Aziraphale supposes it did.

***

He can’t notice that many differences when he enters the flat, suddenly shy as he’s walked through to the couch across from an indulgently large television screen. There’s still the same style underlying everything, still the same dark-yet-bright palette. 

A few books. Those he doesn’t remember. Pictures. Art. Traces of the outside world they’ve lived through. 

“Did you keep a mug for me?” Aziraphale asks.

“What? Why would I--” but his face wavers, his indignant posturing shaking.

“Will you attempt to intimidate me again, if I say it was a nice, and kind gesture?”

“Sod off.”

He grins, and sits on the couch. So it is truly mutual, whatever it is. So many hidden secrets, so much repressed longing. He takes his queue from how Crowley claims parts of his shop, sitting where he wants to. This is mine, his buttocks say. I belong here.

“Do you need to… do you want to… ah, agree anything?”

“Haven’t we had enough of arranged rules of engagement, angel?”

“I suppose. I just didn’t want to be any more presumptive than was necessary.”

“Do you need to impose some rules on _me_?” Crowley asks.

“As if you would obey.”

“I might.”

“If you thought they were good rules.”

“Bad rules don’t deserve to be followed.”

This is more like it. Familiar. Comforting. Back and forth, as if the Antichrist hadn’t just put them back together again. 

“We could agree to good ones,” he counters.

“Alright. No ‘Sound of Music’. No tartan in my flat. No using the last of the milk without miracling up more.”

“Accepted. And… hmm. No leaving an argument without trying to resolve it, or come to some understanding. No ruining of lives. No leaving dirty teaspoons by the sink.”

“...no ruining lives?”

“Moderate mischief only.”

“The bloody Hell do you think I’ve been doing for centuries?”

“...well. I still had to say it.”

“I’m not filling a quota! I don’t have a Head Office now!”

Aziraphale closes his eyes. “I’m sorry. It is… an old habit. I… don’t truly know how to do this.”

“Well. Me either.” He’s deflated a little, but still prickly.

“It will not be easy. Of that I’m sure. But… if the time we’ve managed together so far is any indication, it should be worth the pain.”

“Softy.”

“Serpent.”

“And just so we’re clear… kissing is… okay?”

“Yes? If you - if you want to, as well?”

“Maybe a little more refined than smacking your lips on me in the Ritz, but…” 

“We could practice?”

The demon swings his weight from hip to hip, as if avoiding consecrated ground. His usual, slow orbit turned into an uncomfortable fixed point. He wants to. But he is struggling with it, struggling as much as Aziraphale himself.

“Yeah. Go on then.”

Aziraphale pats the couch, and looks up, hopefully. He knows all about real kissing, romantic kissing… but only second-hand. Encounters scrawled by hand, or recounted by tongue. He knows it’s considered very pleasurable, but it’s one hedonism he’d never dared indulge in.

Crowley sits beside him, and they’ve been closer - they’ve been in one another’s bodies, for Heaven’s sake! - but it feels… like every electron between them is screaming.

He knows that body, now. More intimately than a lover could. He’s been so far inside of it that it’s almost… stupid to feel there’s anything between them, now. 

“Angel…”

“Yes?”

“Would you like me to kiss you back?”

“_Yes_.”

He wants it very much. He’s dying from all this exposure, all these attempts to woo. And he understands how the demon has felt for so long, too. But now they don’t need to, now there’s no higher powers to hide from, and no… internalised prejudice to keep them from…

Crowley’s palm grazes his jaw, as fingers curl up to nestle below his ear. The hand is warm, sinfully warm, and Aziraphale calls out at how… how much. How much he feels. How… jubilantly terrifying this is. It’s just a kiss, but it’s… it means so much more.

“Too fast?”

“Faster,” he begs. “I’ve wanted this too long.”

“You could have just said.”

“I tried.”

He had.

The lean in is so slow that he might implode. He’s so eager to seal this, to agree the terms of ‘them’, that every heartbeat is too much. So even though Crowley leans in respectfully slowly, Aziraphale pushes forwards to meet him half way.

Their noses bump a little. He’s forgotten his sense of physics, and the space his form occupies in the world, and he giggles very briefly at the sheer lunacy of it. But then their faces tilt the right ways, and he has soft, warm, loving, hungry lips on his.

And they just press. Press together, removing any air from between their affection. A fingertip on his earlobe. A knee against his own. A heat somewhere in his spine, those sloshing gut-feelings and the way his ribs shrink to protest the way his heart expands. 

Aziraphale rests a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, thumb falling into that crevasse behind his collarbone. He holds him in place as their mouths start to speak wordless promises together, as they echo back the love they hear, over and over. It’s dizzyingly good, and when they finally pull back… he feels drunk. Weightless and intoxicated, and shaking all the way down to his shoes. 

“Better?” the angel rasps.

“Better,” Crowley agrees. 

“So… you understand?”

“_Perfectly_.”

Their free hands are slotted together, somehow. Somewhere along the line, their palm-lines became tunnels. Their fingers twined up like the roots of some tall tree. An agreement, but a wholly more pleasurable and fair one. Shook upon. Cemented in the taste of one another on their lips. 

They should not be able to focus on each other’s eyes and faces from this close, but physics has never bothered either of them, nor biology. A body is only as useful as you make it, after all. He smiles warmly, feeling everything ratchet inside like the key to his clockwork was found and wound at last. Tick. Tick. Tick. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Cogs and gears made just right, as if… as if made for this very moment.

It’s an indulgence to think She intended this, but it’s maybe less of a stretch to imagine She approves.

“Don’t… don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he asks, not liking the fearful tone in the demon’s voice.

Crowley tries to look away, but Aziraphale touches one finger to his jaw, and the head turns back, though the eyes stay low.

“Don’t… change.”

“You don’t want this?”

“I don’t want to _lose_ it. I’d rather… I’d rather just hope and never succeed, than--”

“Crowley. Crowley! Please. I know I have given you little reason to trust I can… I can adapt… but I…” 

How can he explain it?

“I needed it to be right. Heaven. The Plan. I needed it to be right, or I’d been… wrong.”

“Yeah. I get that.”

“Do you? All those things I’d seen, I’d done. All those times I excused Her, thinking I understood…”

“Fallen, here.”

“You were brave enough to do that. I wasn’t.”

“...you think it was brave? I didn’t even make a decision to do it!”

“But you _did_. And you **do**. You’re my Apple. You’re… you’re what taught me to think. To--”

“You gave away your sword before you knew me.”

“And I spent the past six thousand years neurotically wondering when it would finally come back to haunt me! Don’t you understand? I lied to God! In Her face! And ever since… I’ve… I’ve…” 

“Been your own angel. Mostly. More than any of the other buggers, at least. Maybe I helped you get there faster, but you can’t tell me in all honesty that you weren’t just like me from Day Eight.”

“Then why did She not cast me out?”

“Maybe you should ask Her.”

“I tried.” He slumps. “That’s… when my bookshop went on fire, I believe. I was attempting to bypass Metatron, and… I was accidentally pulled into Heaven.”

“...you…” Crowley laughs. “You know, I did pretty much the same.”

“What?”

“I… uh. May have shouted a few things Up, too.”

His ridiculous demon. He prayed, didn’t he? After all that Heaven and God had put him through… he still prayed. 

“You… do love them, don’t you?”

“...what?”

“Humanity.”

“Just because I enjoy the occasional invention they - stop looking at me like that!”

He leans in, and wraps his arms around him. A hug. A real hug, with all the warmth he can infuse into it. He wants to say so much. Wants to say, ‘I like them, too, even if they annoy me at times’. Wants to say, ‘I understand we’ve just rebelled against everything we’ve ever known, and pulled back the curtain and seen only each other’. Wants to say, ‘I have wanted to hug you for so long. So much so my arms have ached. So much so my heart has ached. So much so that when I look at you, I run through all the images in my mind and slake my thirst on the mirage of us’.

Instead, he fights the initial washboard-stiff response. The kissing had been less of an intrusion, less of a violation. Why? He perseveres, stroking cross his shoulders, up into his hair… until he feels the melting submission. He’s rewarded with a tiny little moan, and hands that clutch at his clothes. 

“I’m not going to change my mind, my dear. I am yours, as long as you will have me. In whatever way you’ll accept me.”

“R-right.”

“Trust me,” he says, and kisses the soft, red hair atop his head. “I love you.”

The rictus, the rigor that snaps through him is like water turned right to ice, and the pliant demon in his embrace turns angry and harsh. He’s shoved backwards, though he doesn’t properly let go, and they end up in an awkward, crushed mess of limbs and snarling lips and hurting eyes.

“You - you can’t say things like that!”

“Why not?”

“Fucking hell, angel! Do - I--”

“I love you,” he says, again, bravely and defiantly lifting his head towards the intimidation. “I have loved you for longer than any Human has ever lived. Longer than trees. Longer than stars.”

“Don’t be so ridiculous.”

“I’m not. I _was_.”

“Do you string along everyone you love?”

“Yes. Because it’s only you.” His heart is pounding, but he knows there’s anger and resentment that won’t be kissed away in a few hours of affection. Crowley feels as intensely about things as he does, and he’s pushed things down just as long. “I should have told you, but I told myself that you knew. Or that it wasn’t true. That you couldn’t possibly understand, or feel the same…”

“**REALLY?**”

“It was easier to believe it was just… me. That you might be using me. That--”

“Using you.”

“Will you ever forgive me, truly? It doesn’t need to be now, but… I need to know you can… can see beyond what I’ve done to you.”

“I loved you even when you hated me!”

“I never hated you!”

“Well, you made it damn sure feel like it.” He pushes back, and Aziraphale lets him. “How we’re enemies. How I’m damned. How I could never understand love. How you couldn’t possibly want to spend time with me. How I asked you for one thing, ever--”

“And all those not-so Heavenly miracles I did for you?”

“Temptations, angel. Sins. Wicked things.”

“You think I did those… why?” He’d hated it. Hated being the cause of pain or damnation. But it had kept Crowley closer, and then it had given them both the necessary support to just stop interfering any more than was necessary.

“You spent all of Creation playing hot and cold. And you wonder why I can’t tell?”

“I did them for you. For. _You_.”

“...”

“And I didn’t want my best and only friend in the whole of existence to decide it was too dangerous one day and - and - leave me! But I gave it to you! I did!”

“You--”

“I didn’t want to lose you, Crowley. And when you didn’t speak to me--”

“...I thought you wouldn’t want me around.”

“Why?” Shit. Now he’s crying. “I broke every rule for you. I’ve been listening with one ear the whole time, waiting for someone to drag me up to Heaven like they did just now. And I still did it. Why wouldn’t I want you around?”

“...you never bloody said.”

No. He didn’t. He’d said anything but, with his words. But his actions… those had been his. Those had been free. He wipes his eyes on his sleeve. “If you cannot forgive me--”

“Angel.”

“...I’m sorry. I cannot undo what I did. I - I tried my hardest. And. And now I am here, and… I will not lie to you any more. And I am terrified that you have grown bored of me, or you will do so. That you only wanted not to be alone, or that when you get to know me better, you will realise you were mistaken. I am _terrified_.”

Crowley nudges an ankle against his. A small gesture, but it feels much bigger. “I already know what a boring sod you can be. But you can also be the most delicious bastard despite the heart of gold you have. Don’t you think I know you already?”

“N-not if you thought I didn’t w-want to be with you.”

“And… you know me so well that you think the same?”

Blearily, he snuffles at the demon. “Are we truly both afraid the other doesn’t feel as much as we do?”

“Kind of sounds like it, to me.”

“Then… how do we… what do we do to fix this?”

“Guess we find out, day at a time.”

That… sounds more hopeful, and he swallows and takes a deep breath. “Is this why the Humans make so many songs, and write so many poems?”

His demon snorts. “Guess so.”

“So we…. We’re…?”

“Apparently we’re engaged. Even if you didn’t do it properly.”

He laughs, but it chokes him. “I didn’t know if you’d want silver, or…”

“Platinum. Titanium. White gold. Anything, really.”

“And if I asked you?”

“Wait and see, angel.”

***

Becoming sort-of-engaged doesn’t change all that much, really. Not logistically. Crowley still drops by his shop, maybe a little more often. He installs himself upon furniture, close by and usually content to occupy himself.

Though they’ve spent most of eternity together, there’s still been more minutes apart than in one another’s presence. And whilst Aziraphale greatly enjoys him being near, sometimes he doesn’t want to outwardly engage with anyone.

This middle ground, though, is perfect. He can glance across when he wants, and know Crowley is there. There, and apparently content with whatever he’s doing on his mobile telephone. If either of them want to strike up a conversation, they can. And if they don’t, they can simply continue what they want to be doing, but with the added reassurance of calm companionship. 

Functionally, it’s what they had, plus some extra benefits. Benefits like: more frequent little gifts from his demon. Boxes of chocolates. The occasional old book (not always ones he would have picked for himself, but decidedly wonderful all the same). Fridge magnets of varying levels of suggestiveness, or sarcastic humour. Every single one is cherished, and he finds a way to display them all. Admittedly some are further around the side of his refrigerator, due to the implications, but they’re still loved.

As well as the tokens of affection, he finds himself the recipient of what could only be called chivalrous courtship. Albeit under the guise of it being ‘ironic’ or ‘dumb’, as Crowley down-plays each gesture. He’ll slide a chair out with a flick of his fingers, for Aziraphale to take his seat. He’ll hold a door open (with his rear). He’ll take him out for lunch, for dinner… even for breakfast, on the mornings he can convince himself to get up. 

Crowley. Once-angel. Once-demon. Now… retired fiend and complete gentleman. It should have surprised Aziraphale, but it doesn’t. For all his clothing has morphed, chamaeleonically through the centuries, much of his attitudes are immortal. Not ‘old fashioned’, per se, but more… he’s found his preferred modes and he’ll stay with them. Much like the car he’s so enamoured of, he finds what he likes and he sticks to it. The deeper things. Deep below the paint and patina. 

Which means, when it comes to romance, he’s the swaggering and faux-sullen version of any number of romantic novels Aziraphale liked to--

Oh. 

Was that why? Was he trying to emulate what he thought Aziraphale would like? Or was Aziraphale attracted to those characters - and Crowley - because of the coincidence? Or…

“Angel?”

“Yes, dear?”

“You looked like you were stuck in a boot cycle.”

“A… what?”

“Nevermind. Just thought you needed a nudge.”

He still says things that the angel can’t understand, but that’s half his charm, and why he’d noticed him, all those years ago.

“I’m fine, dear.”

“Cuppa?”

“I’d love one.”

***

The problem with gentlemen is that they aren’t bastards. 

Which is not something Aziraphale would ever have admitted to thinking, even twenty years ago.

The issue is… well. The issue is, Aziraphale sort of… likes… some of the less-nice parts of Crowley. Some. Mostly because he does or says things that the angel wishes he could, or because he’s found a way to coast that thin line on the edge of minor nuisance to multiple people, to satisfy the overal quota of unhappy people. Instead of totally destroying one person’s life and shot at redemption, he’d spread his net wide and made many people inconvenienced and uncomfortable. 

Achieving the ‘goal’, by totally circumventing the order or intent. A drop of poison in an ocean, split between every cup.

He shouldn’t admire the past wickedness he was supposed to have thwarted, but it is difficult not to appreciate a smart mind. 

And one that was free enough to do things - say things - be things - that Aziraphale hadn’t been able to. 

It’s just… it’s… courtly romance is very nice. He likes the gestures, the fingers on his wrist. He enjoys the kisses to his neck, and the words beside his ear. It’s all very nice.

But it’s just that. _Nice_. And this should not under any circumstance be a complaint.

And. Yet.

It’s maddening! Truly, fiercely, utterly maddening! 

Doesn’t he want… more? Or is this actually what he wants from the relationship, and Aziraphale is being disgusting, lewd, and base? Angels (and by extension, demons) don’t have or need any form of genitalia. They don’t excrete, they don’t - don’t - reproduce, so the organs (if any) were usually simply to pass amongst Humans more easily. A disguise, or a prop. 

So there’s no need for him to think about other… possibilities. No need at all. He’s an angel, even if Heaven can’t understand him. And he’s Good and Holy and… nice, damnit! So why is he the one fighting an ever-increasing urge deep in his unmentionables, and his demon is happy with Afternoon Tea and a Night at the Proms?

Of course. Of course they have to be backwards. A demon who just wants soft romance, and an utterly lecherous angel who keeps remembering what that body had been like, stripped down to the barest of coverings and lowering itself into the Holy Water. He’d been too afraid and giddy at the time to dwell on it, but he knows what he looks like, and - and--

It’s a nice body! Not that Aziraphale has ever really felt interested in others, but he knows this one is nice. Possibly because it belongs to Crowley, but still… those eyes that say so much. That have seen so much. The way his mouth moves like it’s forgotten it’s supposed to follow rules of biology and physics (like any rules). The clever hands, the forked tongue, the hips that describe the orbit of every planet as they move… the curve of his spine as he perches where he shouldn’t, or pours himself like a liquid into places he _really_ shouldn’t…

And Aziraphale can’t help but want to do more than kiss him and hold him. It’s utterly ridiculous. They’ll be at dinner, and he’ll be conscious of every square inch of air between their hands, or their ankles. He’ll spend the whole main course wondering if he can somehow indicate with his eyebrows that he’d be open for a little… footsie. He’ll touch the pulse-point of his lover’s wrist, and hope that conveys the concept of canoodling. 

Because - doesn’t he? Doesn’t he want to? Is… is it that he’s…

“Don’t make me talk to you like you’re one of my plants, angel.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You’re acting like someone just suggested Fahenheit 451 as the next meme.”

“One: I have no desire to understand what a ‘meme’ is, no matter how many times you try to tempt me. And two: burning books is never funny.”

“Then tell me why you’re looking like someone slapped a Findus Krispy Pancake in front of you and called it haute cuisine?”

He knows better than to refuse. He does. Refusing turns to either arguments, or to decades upon centuries of…

“Am I… am I… unattractive?”

“What?”

“I could change, if - if it would--”

“Angel. First tell me why you’re asking. Because you are _anything_ but unattractive, and I need to know what brought this on. Am I… did I say something?”

He shakes his head, and averts his eyes. “N-no.”

“Did I forget to say something?”

“No! I… it’s… ah. I just… worry because you… I thought you might… f-find me… desirable, and I can only conclude you--”

A finger stops his babbling. “You think I don’t find you aesthetically pleasing?”

“You don’t seem to--”

“Because… because I haven’t made a move on you?”

There’s a sad, dejected little nod. Now he realises how pathetic he’s sounding.

“Angel. Angel… would it surprise you to hear I thought you wouldn’t… ah… be interested?”

“Why not?” It’s an indignant little harumph, and he dies a little more inside at the laughter reflected at him. 

“Hello? Earth to Aziraphale? All heavenly host and there-but-for-the-grace-of-God?”

“I left Heaven behind for you!”

“Yes. But I didn’t know you…” The hand goes up, fussing with hair. “I thought you wanted… you know.”

“What we’ve been doing.”

“Obviously.”

“Well. I do. But I also… have considered… other things.”

Crowley’s tongue very briefly tastes his own lips, and the little rush of colour to his cheeks does wonders for Aziraphale’s morale. 

“What… kind of other things?” the serpent hisses.

“Plenty.” Now’s his time to punish Crowley for being too much of a gentleman and not properly attempting to tempt and seduce him. 

“Like?” He’s edging closer, like a predator sizing up prey.

“You think I should do all the hard work for you?”

“Well. I was trying to be--” and the word is clearly hard to say, “--’nice’. So it’s only fair you meet me half way.”

“I just told you I want to be carnal with you. I think I was more than forward.”

The demon’s head tilts to one side, his eyes darting a little too much. It is rather a lot to process, after six thousand years. 

“Ssso. You want me to… seduce you? Debase and defile?”

“I was hoping for something somewhere between romantic and… romping, if I’m honest.”

But the talking side of things has rather spoiled his mood, or rather… turned it into something different. Fonder. The idea of Crowley abstaining out of chivalry is appealing in and of itself. 

“I can do that.”

“But… will you… will you tell me why you didn’t ask?”

“Same reason you didn’t?” He shrugs. “It’s not like I… have much of an idea what we’re doing. I mean. Angels and demons don’t even, let alone with one another. And… I… I didn’t want you to think I was… I mean, Humans do it for producing spawn and stuff, otherwise it’s for fun, and… I dunno. You like eating, and you don’t _need_ to do that, but this is…”

“Different,” he concludes, for him.

“It felt different.”

Because it means something. A little light goes on inside his head. It meant something to Crowley, and…

“You wanted it to be… special.”

“I didn’t think it was on the table, but if it was… yeah. I mean.” Another shrug, bigger, but more worried. “I didn’t want to fuck up what we had, by you thinking I… that I didn’t…”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Hmph…”

“Crowley… in all the years we’ve known one another… have you ever… I mean, have you ever tried to… coerce me?”

“I didn’t mean--!”

“No!” Oh, Heavens, no. “I don’t mean… actual coercion. Yes, you’ve tempted me, and I’ve agreed, but when I’ve said ‘no’... all you’ve done is accept it, or try to convince me.”

“Well, the coercion part is there in the convincing.”

“So you don’t think anyone can ever try to change someone else’s mind respectfully? Am I forcing you right now?”

“How would you like me to answer?” The flash of teeth says he’s mellowing, slightly.

“I want you to understand that… that I know this means more to you than just some… some physical connection or act. I know. And… and I feel the same. And I would… I would very much like to see what other things we both enjoy. Together.”

“So, TLDR, ‘seduce you’?”

Again with the nonsense letters instead of words. Fondly, he nods. “Seduce me.”

“Right… now?”

Aziraphale isn’t totally sure he’s really in the mood right now, and from the wince around Crowley’s eyes, he isn’t in the zone, either. So he shakes his head. “I think I should like to work up to it, but… knowing you are interested is… I mean…”

“I’m interested, angel. Don’t doubt that.”

He’s very, very glad. Very.

“I have… a proposition for you,” Crowley says, his voice too-light and airy.

“Propose away.”

The snort is affectionate, but it doesn’t slow him down. “You still haven’t slept with me. I mean… actual sleep. Why don’t you join me tonight. No funny business, no hanky panky. Just… sleep. And maybe in the morning we could… you know.”

Not the most romantic of phrasings, but the idea is certainly appealing. An agreed upon window of opportunity, with first some affectionate company? And intimate sharing? Enough time to work up to it. 

“One request.”

“Name it,” the demon answers.

“You said no tartan. Would you include any possible pyjamas in that?” Not that he needs them. It’s more the… well. Flirtation of it. Give, and take. See what he can wriggle out of him. Tease him good-naturedly, over something that really doesn’t matter, not in the grand scheme of things.

“Are you prepared for them to be ripped to pieces in the morning?”

“I believe I could accept those terms.”

“Then lead on, McDuff.”

***

Sleeping is ridiculous. It is a waste of time that could be better used elsewhere, even though he has an infinite supply and often zones out when there’s nothing interesting enough to keep him occupied. But! Being unconscious! It’s… it’s…

So Human.

Aziraphale flusters as Crowley pulls back the duvet cover and sheet for him, looking so worriedly nonchalant that his heart breaks weirdly. It’s such a strangely intimate offer, to be vulnerable and unaware in one another’s company. To give up so much control and autonomy. 

He’d been angry, when he’d first lost him to sleep for any extended period. Angry and jealous and lonely. They’d been apart for longer, before, but it had never been because Crowley chose to make himself entirely inaccessible. 

And since then, he’s never held a positive connotation with the concept. Never.

Even now he’s nervous. Not because he doesn’t trust him, or…

“If you decide you don’t want to sleep, you could just… lie with me,” Crowley offers.

“You won’t be upset?”

“Nah. It’s just sleep. Isn’t important.”

It isn’t, but he is. Not that he expects Crowley would reject him for Morpheus these days. Still, the reassurance is welcome, and he slips under the layers like he’s fruit inside a tart, and the image has him stifling amusement.

“How does one fall asleep?”

“Usually, one finds a comfortable position, and then… lets go.”

“Lets go?”

“Unless you plan on letting yourself get exhausted, or blind drunk… yeah. And those don’t always make you feel better when you wake. So… you… you get comfortable, and you relax. You let your worries go. Focus on something… nice. So if you dream, it’s good.”

Relax. Of course. The minute anyone tells him to relax, he tenses, and--

“Angel. You know when you read a good book?”

“Yes?”

“When you lose yourself in that feeling, that world?”

“...yes?”

“Like that. But lying down. And - if all goes well - cuddling.”

“Oh.” Oh yes. That analogy works better. He’s never been the best with utter peace, he’s always needed just that tiny bit of mayhem, distraction… “Thank you.” 

They move, shuffle, mutter apologies and finally find a way their bodies can fit in relative comfort. Aziraphale likes the heat against his flank, the fingers that lock as they join their hands across their waists. He pushes his head into the bend of Crowley’s neck, and breathes in his sharp, soap-smart scent. 

“I won’t sleep unless you’re sleeping. But it’s okay if you don’t.”

“You’ll stay awake with me?”

“Course I will.”

That makes him feel better, too. He pecks a soft kiss to Crowley’s jaw, then fluffles back down into the pillows below his head. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he offers, after a pause that didn’t feel uncomfortable at all. 

“If you do.”

“I think so. It’s - it’s new to me.”

“Me too.”

Crowley must know he’s angling for information, and he further implies with an elbow.

“Hey!”

“Come on. You must… you know.”

“Must what?”

“You’re a demon.”

“Job was tempting, not prostituting myself, angel.”

“I didn’t mean--!”

“Shh.” A kiss into his hair. “I know the basics. And - well - some of the weirder peccadilloes. But if you’re asking me if I’ve ever… then no. And you’re the only one I’ve kissed with - wait. That’s a lie. I did use my tongue once, but only on someone’s lips, and only to freak them out.”

“...you did?”

“They deserved it. And I didn’t enjoy it like _that_. You’re the only one I’ve kissed like _that_.”

“Like… what?” He can fish if he wants to.

“Like someone I respect and admire, and want to spend eternity with, even if I get killed for it.”

“How romantic,” he drolls.

“I thought so. But in answer to your question… no. And I haven’t even done this with anyone, either.”

That makes him feel oddly better, and he wriggles even closer in. “But you’ve… wanted to do what we’re… planning to do?”

“I’ve… definitely thought about it.”

“And those thoughts entail…?”

“You really want me to talk filth to you, on the night before our wedding?”

“Oh, so you won’t make love to me out of wedlock? How sweet.”

“More like I decided if we’re going that far, it means we really are married already.”

Trust Crowley to refuse to have pre-marital sex. Even if his idea of marriage is saying that they are. 

“I didn’t get you your ring, yet.”

“If you don’t want to dump my ass in the morning, you can take me to pick one.”

“Do I get to wear one, as well?”

“Of course you do. Oh - one request.”

“Yes?”

“No crucifixes or fish or shit.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear.”

Silence again. Longer, this time. Warm. Fond. Affectionate. 

“Would you mind if I… did try to sleep now?”

“I would be delighted, angel.”

“Then I think I will.”

***

He’s not sure he’s done it right. How can you tell? He knows he shut his eyes, and he knows he let himself drift on the warmth of the body huddled against him. Knows he wrapped himself in love and care. Knows that time stretched infinitely, then compressed like none had passed at all. Is that sleep? It’s close enough, anyway. 

Aziraphale rouses first, opening his eyes to see the slack, peaceful face across from him. With his conscious choices gone, Crowley’s face is devoid of any sneer, smirk, or other battle armour he wears. The sunglasses don’t usually obscure his face in private, but he very rarely sees him so… so…

It hurts a little to disturb such a rest, but he leans over to press the most gentle kiss he can to those lips. Gentle, with the faintest, non-forked lick of his tongue. It is one thing he’s envied, about Crowley’s body. The tongue had been fun when he’d been him. Fun to play against his teeth, or feel the way scent was so much richer. He should have eaten something, but then he might have felt even more jealous if it had tasted better.

Crowley starts to stir, his eyes reading pages behind closed lids. One foot draws against the angel’s calf, and the arm that’s snaked around him roves at his waist, squirming and interfering with his pyjama top. 

Aziraphale is covered as much as he is during the day, with only a little more throat and his feet exposed. Crowley, though, is wearing more or less what he had when Aziraphale stripped him for his bath. A modesty thing, likely for his sake?

“Do you need to sleep some more?” he asks, finding the side of his nose is perfectly formed to slot alongside the demon’s. 

“Mmmm. No…”

“Did you sleep well?”

“With you… _yes_.” 

He breathes it out in such a sultry tone that Aziraphale feels it like hot rain in the summer. The hand at his waist shifts, fingers eking under the hem, glancing against the warm skin of his waist. 

It’s. It’s. His heart is racing madly, and he knows full well that if anyone else tried to touch him there, he’d want to smite them into Hell himself. But when Crowley does it, it’s… it’s not even like it’s just the physical. Maybe he’s a sentimental old Principality, but it feels like it’s more. Closer. It… it means.

“You still want me to seduce you, angel?” His voice drips with honey and spice, the golden shimmer over fruit, catching rainbows as it wends. 

“_Yes_. Do you?”

“**Oh yes**.”

Knowing his demon actually… desires him… it does something special and pure and… oh, but it makes all the fear he had melt to nothing. The fingers stroke below his ribs, the legs moving to tangle them together, and lips seek his, begging for kisses but not taking.

Both would be good. 

“I truly do love you,” the angel whispers, as he plucks and plays with Crowley’s lower lip. He uses the back of two fingers to trail over a bare shoulder, down over the bicep, feeling it flex instinctively beneath his touch. 

“You know… right?”

“I do.”

“I mean… really know?”

“I. Do.” He does. He knows that the feeling of love, adoration, devotion… he’d sensed it all along, but denied it like he’d denied the problems in Hell. But now he can listen to the pulses that are more like a constant throbbing. A heartbeat of emotion, directed solely at him.

It’s Crowley. It’s always been Crowley. A tangled knot of all the spectrum of feelings, echoing his own. And every fearful time he’s asked for more, he’s not once been disappointed or turned away. So perhaps it’s foolish to be so afraid, when they are capable of so much more?

Aziraphale moves, pushing Crowley down so he can lift a leg and straddle his lap. His thighs settle nicely into place, and he feels a thrill of control, of decision. He’s chosen this. He wants this. Crowley wants it, too.

“How do you want to--”

“We could just… see what happens?”

“You don’t mind what--”

Crowley grabs his ass in both hands, rocking him more firmly down and - yes - he’s most assuredly aroused. “We have eternity to try everything and see what we like. I’m not hung up on rules and roles, as you well know.”

This much is true. Crowley sways across any line he finds, looking at it from both angles, and frequently treating it as a fulcrum and not a limit. It’s oddly liberating, and he bends down; hands in the pillows scrunch for balance, and he kisses him slow and deep. A lick that drinks in longing, and leaves its own in payment.

“Perhaps less clothing?” he suggests, as their hips find a rhythm to sway to. 

“I definitely want to see what you’re hiding.”

“You didn’t peek?”

“When?”

“When… we swapped?”

“Didn’t seem right.”

“...but I changed you for your baptism!”

“A necessary evil. But if you like, I can spank you for it. Or… I could just take my payment in kind…”

Both hands on his waist, now, pushing the shirt up and slowly baring his torso. Heat stains his cheeks, and the flush hits his chest and keeps going down as he arches and pushes into those hands. Every railway-sleeper clunk of fingers over his flanks, the slight tickle making him bite his lip before he has to take his weight and let the simple shirt be removed.

It isn’t shredded, but he doesn’t mention it. Another compromise made for him, meaningful in and of itself.

“You are…” Crowley’s incisors push into his lower lip. 

Aziraphale moves to sit back on his haunches, his own hands placed high up on Crowley’s chest to keep the connection. He’s basking in the appreciation, and he doesn’t even feel guilty for once. He’s waited long enough.

“Soft?” he teases. His body isn’t as lean as the demon’s. It wouldn’t be right to keep it that way. It should reflect the kind of person he is, and that person is one who very much enjoys replying ‘yes’ when asked if he wants to see the dessert menu.

“Only like a cloud is.” A head-cock, assessing, apprising. “Better to let the sunlight through.”

“Are you calling me transparent?”

“Translucent, at best. And full of the promise of thunder and rain.”

“Only you could make that sound romantic,” he demurs, as he feels fingers exploring the newly-bare skin.

“Only you could make it look so appealing.” 

He sighs and moans as his collarbones are traced, as cloud-shapes are described over his curves. Thumbs graze over his nipples, and he’s shocked by the jolt that sends down to his knees. His body is so awake, it’s like the first time he ever ate chocolate, but multiplied a hundredfold because of the emotional element. He rocks against his lover, then huffs a little chuckle as the hands scrawl over his tummy, dipping into his navel and reaching the edge of his waistband.

“What about you?”

“You want to peek below my unmentionables, angel?”

“If we’re about to - you know--”

“You can say it, you know.”

Bugger. “If we’re about to… make love… I should think it might help.”

“I was always ready for you to ask.” 

Crowley looks so… fuck. He’s soft, still, sleep-dozy and hopeful. It’s more anticipation and shy eagerness than fear, and the closeness makes the angel’s breast hurt. 

So he drops down, to one hand, and pushes his other under the centre of that slim, sleeveless black fabric that hides the broken mirror to his own torso. Crowley’s belly flinches instinctually in, but then relaxes as the material is moved up and away, showing pale and almost moon-bright skin. 

“Like what you see?” his demon asks.

“I have always loved to look at you. You are… a wonder, Crowley.”

“Hah.”

“No… I mean it.”

“I’m no angel.”

“But you are _stunning_. Your eyes, your face… even your hair. No matter how you wear it, it’s like a crown of flames and I’ve wanted to touch it for so long…”

His demon blushes to match said hair, huffing. “Leave it off.”

“No, I’m serious. It could be that I only find you so charming because it’s _you_ inside, but I’ve never felt… like that about anyone else. I can see that some people are aesthetically pleasing, and I have enjoyed their company, but…”

Crowley now looks like he wants the bed to devour him, and instead pulls Aziraphale into a kiss to try the same. It’s fierce, all teeth and light growl and a stab of tongue, and then they flip and the angel is on his back, with Crowley on top.

“Less talking. More fucking.” 

The demon forces his legs apart, making them wrap around his waist, his mouth seeking the pulse-beat of his throat and suckling so hard that Aziraphale can see eternity dancing in the floating lights his eyes see.

“Oh!”

“Want you. Always wanted you. Only you.” Crowley is going to leave a mark with his aggressive necking, and Aziraphale finds the concept incredibly appealing.

“Crowley!”

“_Need_ you. Always.”

“I’m yours, Crowley, I swear I’m yours.”

“Me, too.” 

His grinding makes the angel utterly aware of every inch between their legs, awkward and bumping, and it’s still overwhelmingly blissful. He wants to see if his lover enjoys the same as he does, and his fingers pinch briefly at a nipple, until it gets him a yelp-wail and a tidal surge of snake-lust.

“Angel!”

“Too much?”

“Yes, don’t stop!”

Aziraphale urges him up, and seeks out one nipple with his lips. It’s pert and ready, pointed like a ripe berry, and he tugs with only his lips. It gets hands in his hair, and a shaking demon humping at his thigh. Emboldened, and enjoying the sting to his scalp, he licks roughly and then starts to suckle in earnest.

The noises his demon makes are so scrumptious and undignified, but oh so perfect. He keeps up the attention until Crowley is babbling and pulling back, but only to go to the other side. Nails scratch at his shoulders and Crowley bucks until he can’t take any more, pushing him back into the sheets and hovering, nose-to-nose. 

“Pants.”

“Mmm?”

“Off. _Please_.”

Aziraphale slides hands down his demon’s supple spine, and guides the fabric away from a lean, taut ass. He slides a single digit between the buttocks, and then… then keeps going… past the little taut flinch reaction, to explore behind the heavy sac of silky skin and firm need. It makes the demon’s cock twitch against him, and he’s sure he can scent the first drops of his pre-release on the air.

“You too,” Crowley says, and flips them again.

His demon is fully naked now, either by hands or by wishing, he can’t entirely recall. Both are just expressions of his will, after all.

Naked, striped like the snake he is, red and silver of lust and love. His nipples still lingeringly glistening with saliva, his cock a darker flush and a poke of the tip from the intact sheath. Of course he’s not cut. Aziraphale would have expected as much. 

“Angel!”

“I’m admiring my husband.”

“Your husband wants to do the same.” Crowley snaps the fingers of one hand, and then smirks.

That’s one way to get the final shreds to leave. Aziraphale looks down, and sees himself erect for the first time. He’s felt urges, but he’s denied his body the benefit of them. There was no need to let it toil in vain, after all, and it might have been uncomfortable.

He’d never thought of bothering to investigate alone. It just held no interest for him. The only reason he’s engaged right now is the doe-eyed demon shyly stroking his inner thighs. 

“May I?” Crowley asks.

“I want us both to.”

“How?”

Hmm. He contemplates the things he’s read, assesses the way bodies can bend and fit, and…

“I want to watch your face,” he says, eventually. “Can we… can we lie side by side?”

“Anything, angel.”

A little work, a few pillows, and he can look directly into his demon’s eyes. Can watch his face as he reaches across, touching his belly, his hip, his thigh. Exploring the sighs and moans, the roll of his hips. Crowley echoes his movements, then leads, then they change again. An exploration without the urgency they both know is around the corner, and a joyful sharing. 

Crowley does want him. There’s no faking the kind of open-hearted longing on his beloved’s face, or the way he rolls like high tide when Aziraphale fondles his balls. They’re enough to make him hiss, make his eyes misty, make him nudge his cockhead against the inside of the angel’s wrist. The touches in return tell him precisely why.

“Promise me something?” Aziraphale asks.

“What is it, angel?”

“If you want something… try to ask me?”

Shame floods his cheeks, shame and regret.

“No… you… you didn’t because you wanted to not disrespect me. I understand. But I told you… when we began this. It’s you. You I want. Over all things, I want to be yours.”

“I…”

“Yes?”

“Tell me you want me, too?”

“Always, my dear. Always. I want that smile of yours. I want those wicked thoughts, wrapped around the good in you. I want that mind that won’t stop asking, that tongue that won’t stay still…”

He’s getting close, closer with every confession, every brush of affection against his heart.

“Angel!”

“I want to see you lose control. I want to hold you while you do. I want you to know… all of you. I love all of you. And you don’t have to hold parts back to please me. It’s you I want.”

Crowley’s hand works him faster, faltering and furious. He’s pinching, pulling, a thumb rubbing at somewhere that wouldn’t exist if God didn’t truly want Her children to enjoy this. 

“I love you,” Crowley says, in his broken voice. “Always have. Thought you. Thought you were too good for me. Wanted. Wanted to just… be… with you… nghhhh… wanted to kiss you, hold you, fuck you, fuck me, sunsets, books… angel… I - I can’t--”

“I can’t, either,” he admits, his voice just as wobbly. 

“M’gonna--”

“_Yes_.”

“_Ohhhhhhhh_.”

He’s not sure which of them starts to climax first, but the response is a chain reaction. Splatters of hot lust that bathe them both, spurting over hands and bellies. A drive to keep thrusting, until it’s so much that his mind can’t take a single rut more. 

Crowley has the presence of mind to grab his hip, and Aziraphale does the same. Too-raw dicks just pushed into one another, twitching and over-stimulated. A goopy hand-print on his hip, and gasping breath against his lips. 

Bliss and heavenly love spread and threaten to drown him, and his eyes meet yellow ones. How did he ever think this was wrong? Something as beautiful and generous as love. Even with the jealousy and anger… the better notes rang clear above the discordant tones. 

He doesn’t have to say ‘I love you’ again, not right now. He knows Crowley can sense it just as much as he can. That expanding of ‘self’, covering them both. ‘Us’. Crowley. His companion, his partner, his equal… his love. 

Right now, everything is as right as it can be. He’s sure it will stretch and pull again, as they negotiate all their flaws and fears… but he knows they can reach this place. And that means this can work, because they both want it to.

Instead of a ‘thank you’ or ‘I love you’, he pushes his mouth to his beloved’s, and they talk without words. He doesn’t plan on leaving the bed, or his arms, for many, many hours. The universe is better when they don’t fight one another. They’ve always been strongest - and happiest - when they fight side by side.

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the lovely [sweathands](http://sweathands.tumblr.com) whose artwork is enough to sink a thousand ships. And then turn them into sexy submarines. (They also have [this open for art!](https://www.deviantart.com/sweathands/art/Sweathands-Commission-Information-OPEN-704567490).)
> 
> The request was for 'Crowley is a gentleman and Aziraphale is thorsty af'. Hopefully this covers it.
> 
> PS I love to take requests. I fill any I can :)


End file.
